Flirting With Death
by EFAW
Summary: Travis has always been a reckless idiot, but 'flirting with death' takes on a new meaning when Death is a cute, snarky blonde who keeps saving him. Oneshot. Wesvis.


**Summary: **Travis has always been a reckless idiot, but 'flirting with death' takes on a new meaning when Death is a cute, snarky blonde who keeps saving him. Oneshot. Wesvis.

**Warnings: **Crack. Pure crack from start to finish. This does not mean it is happy crack. Some swearing. Mentions of/implied suicide. Deathwish. Death is an occupation not a lifestyle choice. Wes is not a guardian angel (except when he is). Wesvis.

**Disclaimer: **I neither own nor am affiliated with Common Law in any way.

**This is very loosely inspired by a post on tumblr. So very loosely inspired that I won't even bother posting the link here. Let's just say I misread the prompt and thought it said something completely different.**

**OOOO**

**Flirting With Death**

"_There are always potential rogues who, seeing an opportunity, will flirt with death and then, at the very last moment, will be surprised to have met with it so easily."_

—_Pierre Magnan, The Messengers Of Death_

**XXXX**

The explosion knocks him off his feet and sends him flying through the air, and Travis realizes he doesn't want to die. Not that he wanted to die _before_, not really. It's just that he's reckless and headstrong and sometimes he doesn't think things all the way through. He knows that. And sometimes it gets him in trouble. But nothing like this. He's never been in a situation like this.

And he doesn't want to die.

He hits the wall hard, all the air knocked out of him in an instant. He feels bones snap in his chest, the reverberation running all the way through him, but he doesn't feel pain, and he isn't sure if it's because he's too dazed from the blast or if he's going into, like, instant shock. Is that even a thing? He has no idea.

He collapses at the base of the wall, stunned and unable to move. Not just yet. He lies there, despite the flames quickly filling the room, gasping for breath and trying to convince himself that getting up and running is the better option. He can't quite persuade his body.

That's when he sees the figure.

At first he thinks he's hallucinating, but he blinks and blinks again and the figure doesn't disappear.

It looms above him, a cloaked, hooded figure in black. From this angle, Travis can't see anything inside the hood except inky black shadow—but he really doesn't need to see anything to know what it is. What it _has _to be.

Death has come.

Travis doesn't want to die.

"Travis Marks," the figure says, voice low and monotonous.

This is it then. The end.

Travis doesn't want to die, but sometimes there's no avoiding it.

He closes his eyes.

"Travis Marks. You…are…the _biggest_ pain in the ass I've ever had to deal with."

Travis's eyes snap open.

Death reaches up, pulling its hood back. Instead of a bald white skull grinning down at him, Travis finds himself staring up at a blond man with the sharpest, palest blue eyes he's ever seen. Blue like cold, like ice. Like death.

And Death is wearing the _most_ annoyed scowl on his face.

The hooded figure crosses his arm. "I mean, seriously. You couldn't have taken three seconds to check and see if maybe the bomb maker had, I don't know, _booby-trapped his place with a bomb?_ Really? That was too hard for you?"

Travis blinks. "Wha?"

Death crouches down beside his head, jabbing an admonishing finger into his shoulder. "You need," he snaps, "to take better care of yourself, because I'm exhausted trying to keep your sorry ass alive. Okay? Get on that. I have better things to do with my time."

Travis shifts, trying to sit up. His ribs remind him why that's a bad idea, and he slumps back to the ground with a groan. "Wha—what?" That's all he can manage, between the sudden emergence of the pain and the way it knocks all the air out of his lungs again.

"Yeah. Take care of yourself. Or I'm going to kill you myself and get it over with, because really, this job sucks." Death stands, still scowling down at him.

Travis blinks. "I…sorry, what? Are you Death?"

"Yes." The blonde lifts his hands. "But, lucky for you, not today. I'm going to drop the ceiling on you now, so brace yourself."

The figure raises his hands, and Travis hears an ominous crack above him. His eyes fly to the ceiling, where a huge crack is forming in the plaster.

Travis has enough time to throw his hands around his head before it all comes tumbling down in a cloud of dust.

The effort makes his ribs scream at him, and he passes out before he can see if the strange guy is still there.

**XXXX**

He wakes up in the hospital. After much prodding and poking by the doctors and nurses, they finally let his visitors see him, one at a time. Paekman is first, giving him a light pat on the shoulder so he doesn't jostle Travis's ribs. (Not that Travis would have felt it anyway; they've dosed him with the _good_ drugs.)

"Man, you were lucky," Paekman says, slumping into the visitor's chair. "When I heard the explosion, I thought—well, you can probably guess what I thought." His mouth twitches, and Travis knows exactly what Paekman thought. He thought it himself.

"I've always been a lucky guy," Travis says, shooting his partner a small smile.

"Yeah, you have," Paekman laughs, and the mood eases. The other male leans back, propping his feet up on the bed. "Still, man, it was something else. When the firefighters got to you, you were buried under half the ceiling. It fell at an angle, protecting you from the fire." He shakes his head in wonder. "A few inches to the left and it would have squashed you like a bug. I don't think lucky is descriptive enough a word."

"Yeah." Travis frowns, thinking back to the hooded figure that had waved his hand and made the ceiling fall down. Who'd saved his life.

_You need to take better care of yourself, because I'm exhausted trying to keep your sorry ass alive._

"Hey! Travis!" Paekman snaps his fingers in Travis's face. "You okay?"

Travis blinks and musters up a smile. "Yeah, no, I'm fine. Just…remembering something. I think." He looks at his friend. "Was there anyone else in the building? Maybe a blonde guy in a weird robe?"

"No." His partner frowns, eyeing him. "There was only you and a lot of debris. Anyone else would have been blown to smithereens. Are you feeling alright?" He reaches towards the call button. "Maybe I should get the doctor…"

"Nah, man, I'm fine." Travis waves a hand. "It's good. I must have just been dreaming."

"You did hit your head pretty hard," Paekman offers, settling back in his chair. "How's that feeling, anyway?"

Travis grins lazily. "Man, I am on the _good_ drugs."

"I'll bet you are," his partner laughs, and that's that.

Travis dismisses the hooded figure as something his mind conjured up. After all, he'd been near death and he'd just been slammed into a wall. There's no way it was real.

**XXXX**

The next time Travis sees him, he gets shot.

He and Paekman have doggedly followed leads and dead ends and red herrings for four days, and they've finally found the place where their suspect is hiding out. It's a warehouse that their suspect's brother runs his arms smuggling business out of.

Paekman says to wait for backup, but backup is ten minutes out and their guy knows they're here. If they wait, the murdering bastard will be long gone.

Travis knows it's stupid, but he can't let this guy get away. The families of two young women need this closure. So he goes in. With an exasperated shout, Paekman follows.

Which is how Travis ends up hiding behind a crate getting shot at, because the thing about gun runners is they tend to have a lot of guns on hand. Paekman is on the other side of the warehouse, backup is still minutes out, and he's only got one clip left.

"Stupid, stupid," he mutters, tossing the empty magazine aside and loading the new one. "Connors!" he calls, peeking around the crate, "just come out, dammit—"

His skull explodes with pain and red and white stars burst in front of his eyes.

He must black out for a second, because when he blinks he's flat on his back, gun thrown two feet away and right out in the open so it might as well be a million miles away, and a familiar hooded figure is sitting on the crate, scowling at him from the depths of his hood.

"Remember last time?" the blonde says, "remember when I said you need to take care of yourself? This?" His finger circles the air, encompassing all 'this'. "_This_ does _not_ count."

Slowly, Travis sits up. He touches his temple, and his fingers come away red. "Why aren't they shooting at you?" he asks the blonde. Then he adds, "Why aren't they shooting at _me?_" because that's the more important question, seeing as how Blondie is just a figment of Travis's imagination.

"I stopped time," the other man says with a negligent wave of his hand. Travis's brain stutters at the impossibility; Blondie doesn't notice or care.

"You stopped _time?_"

"Well, I slowed it down, really," the blonde corrects, "to the point it _looks_ like it's stopped. You know how people say time slows when they're having a near-death experience? That's all that's happening here."

One more reason to think this is just a dream, and the first rule in dreams is 'go with it', so he nods. "Okay, I'm having a near-death experience." That makes sense. Sure.

Except Blondie jumps up and starts gesticulating, robes flapping dramatically around his legs. "No, no you are _not!_ You are experiencing a miracle, a _goddamn miracle_ here, okay? Do you know how hard it is to deflect bullets, huh? I'm gonna have migraines for a _week_, bud, and you're just going to have a new scar to add to your collection."

Travis touches his temple again, frowning at the blood on his fingers. There's no pain, but Travis chalks that up to this being a dream. "Wait, you shot me?"

"I shot—_no_, I did not _shoot you_, you moron!" The blonde whirls on him, eyes flashing like lightning. He crosses the space between them in an instant, jabbing his finger into Travis's chest. "_I _kept that bullet from going straight through your _face_, okay, so be damn grateful it grazed your big fat head because it could have been a _lot_ worse. But do I get any thanks?" Blondie asks the ceiling. "_No_, I get accusations."

Travis frowns, trying to sort this all out. "So I'm not dying? And you didn't shoot me?"

Blondie drops his head in his hands and makes a frustrated sound. "_I. Did. Not. Shoot. You._" He continues to stomp angrily in front of the crate. "No, you're not dying. You're not even having a near-death experience. A few stitches and you'll be fine. If anyone's having an experience, it's _me!_ I'm having a near-Travis experience."

Travis eyes the stomping apparition with wary amusement. "And, uh, how's that going for you?"

"It feels a lot like _homicidal rage_," Blondie snaps. He runs his hands through his hair. "Now I know why Phil and Ellen quit. This is a _crap_ posting. _Absolute crap_, I say."

"Hey, now," Travis says, mildly offended even if he's not quite sure why. "It can't be that bad."

Blondie stares at him, eyes wide and incredulous. "It can't—it can't be _that bad?_" He covers his mouth, bows his head, and starts shaking. Travis perks up, a little alarmed—until he realizes the bastard is _laughing_.

"It can't be that bad," the other male cackles, a touch of hysteria in the words. "It _can't_ be _that bad_." He drops his face in his hands, and even though he's laughing it's the very picture of a man at the end of his rope. "_It can't be that bad._"

Now Travis is sure he's offended. "What's that supposed to mean?"

The other man shakes his head, and, still cackling wildly, he disappears. Just gone, between one blink and the next.

"Hey!" Travis looks around at the empty space. "What's what mean?!"

**XXXX**

He must pass out again, because suddenly there's Paekman leaning over him and a paramedic shining a light in his eyes and _now_, now he feels the pain. He groans.

Something around Paekman's eyes eases. "Hey, buddy, glad to see you're still with us."

Travis blinks up at his partner. "I…man, I had the _weirdest_ dream."

Paekman grins, clasping his shoulder gently. "You can tell me all about it in the ambulance."

**XXXX**

While he's on desk duty recuperating, Travis does some research—if a cursory Google search counts as 'research'. What he finds is a whole lot of nothing. There are a lot of people who've had near-death experiences, but they all seem to be visions of light or out-of-body dreams. No one reports seeing a hooded emissary of death berating them for their recklessness.

A few people mention time seeming to slow down, but, again, no one says there's anyone _making_ it happen.

Basically, Travis's experiences are completely out of the ordinary.

So he looks up dreams. There's a lot of symbolism and metaphor, which was never Travis's strong suit. He does find out that death, in dreams, usually doesn't symbolize _actual_ death. It means a transitional phase or change.

"Huh." He leans back, frowning thoughtfully at the computer screen. "Wonder what that means."

**XXXX**

"It can't be that bad," a voice scoffs. "Says the man at the base of a ladder."

Travis groans, squinting up at a familiar scowling face. With his hands on his hips, the blonde makes the most exasperated sound ever.

"Were you dropped on your head as a child?" Blondie asks. "I mean, who even falls off a ladder?"

"Construction workers, I bet," Travis grunts, shifting. "Roofers. House painters."

"Of which you are none. No, no, don't move, you'll snap your neck and never walk again." He crouches down and puts his hand on either side of Travis's head, holding him still.

His hands are warm and soft, neither of which Travis expected from either an apparition of death or a dream. He blinks up at the annoyed face above him.

"Do you moisturize?"

Blondie's eye twitches. "I hate you. I hate you so much, you don't even know." Slowly, he releases Travis's head. "Good. Don't move." He leans back, out of view, but then there's a rustle of cloth and Travis can sort of see him, sitting off to the side.

"I did the math," Death says, pulling a short stack of crumpled paper from beneath his robes. "Did you know, you have, on average, .83 near-death experiences per day?"

"Uh," Travis says.

The other man barrels on before he can say anything else. "Do you know who else has that many near-death experiences per day? _No one_. Not even presidents or soldiers."

Travis coughs, resisting the urge to fidget. "Well, I've always been a special snowflake," he chirps brightly.

The scorch of Blondie's glare is almost tangible. "No, you're a reckless idiot. I mean, who nearly dies going up the stairs? If you didn't take them four at a time, that wouldn't happen."

Paper shuffles. "And that motorcycle is a deathtrap. Either stop going around corners so fast or get a car, dumbass, make everyone's lives easier. And look at this, just yesterday you—"

Travis closes his eyes and listens to the emissary of death rant about his daily.83 near-death experiences until the ambulance arrives.

**XXXX**

It's strange, he muses, dreaming about the same man every time he gets into a situation. How's that saying go? Once is chance, twice is coincidence, three times is a pattern. Something like that.

Travis wonders what his subconscious is trying to tell him.

(Well, no, he knows what his subconscious is trying to tell him; Blondie has been pretty vocal about that.)

He wonders what a fourth sighting means.

**XXXX**

"You need to be more careful," Paekman says when Travis comes back to work. It makes him smile.

His partner shoots him an odd look. "What's so funny?"

"Nothing." Travis waves it aside. "Just…someone said something similar recently, is all."

Ignoring Paekman's baffled gaze, Travis sits at his desk, chuckling to himself every so often.

**XXXX**

The fourth time changes everything.

He's in pursuit, racing after Coleman through the basement of an office building. He and Paekman split up at the last junction, but Travis's gut is telling him their guy went this way, so he's racing flat out, trying to catch up. There's so many hallways and tunnels, though, it's an absolutely maze down here and a man could easily lose himself.

Travis won't let that happen.

He puts on an extra burst of speed and rounds a corner, expecting to see Coleman down the hall.

Coleman is not down the hall. Coleman is waiting behind the corner with his modified taser, waiting for Travis to run right into it. Travis, always the obliging sort, does.

He's been hit by a taser before—every cop gets it in basic training. But that was a standard taser in a controlled setting.

This is lightning and death in a box. Every nerve is on fire, and he swears he can feel his heart shuddering and jolting.

_Please_, he prays, unable to even scream. _Please, I don't want to die._

As if God himself hears Travis's plea, his savior materializes behind the attacker, morphing out of the shadows in indignant rage. Coleman doesn't notice, and Travis's brain is starting to shut down.

And then Blondie hauls his fist back and punches Coleman right in the face.

Coleman goes down and doesn't get up; the taser goes flying off.

Travis falls.

He can't even move. His heart is staggering in his chest, and he can't get his lungs to work. He vaguely sees Blondie leaning over him as his vision tunnels.

"Oh no, you are _not_ dying on me after all this," the other man snaps, and then he's doing compressions on Travis's chest.

It almost, Travis thinks, seems like Death is worried about him.

But it's probably his imagination.

Then he passes out.

**XXXX**

He moves gingerly into the interrogation room, trying not to aggravate the wounds on his chest. Derek Coleman, cuffed to the table, starts.

"You!"

"Me." Biting back a groan, Travis lowers himself into a chair. "I need to talk to you."

Coleman sits back, scowling petulantly. "I don't have anything to say to you."

"You almost electrocuted me to death," Travis points out. "I think you owe me an answer or two." He nods towards Coleman's face. "Who punched you?"

Coleman's eyes flick toward the camera, hand coming up to rub his bruised jaw. The cuffs stop him, but he doesn't seem to notice. "You did."

"No, I was being electrocuted, I certainly didn't punch you," Travis says. He leans forward conspiratorially. "Look, Coleman, I turned off the cameras. It's just you and me here. So. Who punched you?"

The perp scowls, glaring at the table. "It was some blonde guy, alright? Just some guy."

Something clenches in Travis's chest. "Where'd he come from? Where'd he go?"

"I didn't see him show up," Coleman says. "But he…" He scowls again. "You'll think I'm crazy."

"I promise I won't."

"His disappeared, alright? As soon as your partner showed up, the guy disappeared into thin air." He turns his glare on Travis. "See? Now you think I'm crazy!"

Travis takes a shaky breath, trying to identity this feeling in his chest. Ah, yes, it's the feeling of the world tilting on its side.

He clears his throat. "No," he says, trying not to sound as discombobulated as he feels. "No, I don't think you're crazy. Could you, uh, describe this guy? For a sketch artist?"

Coleman's head snaps up, eyes narrowed. But he must sense the lack of mockery on Travis's end, because he slowly sits back.

"Yeah," Coleman says. "Yeah, I can describe him."

**XXXX**

Travis stares at the sketches in his hands, and the world seem to lunch under his feet. One of them is Coleman's; one of them is his. They're both a damn good likeness of the man Travis sees in his dreams—but if Coleman saw him too, then that means he's real. He has to be real. Travis didn't imagine getting electrocuted, and Coleman didn't punch himself in the face.

Which means it all has to be real. _This guy_ has to be real.

Which is…completely impossible.

Travis is still staring when the elevator lets him off. Absently, he makes his way to the digi-forensics lab.

"Travis! What's up?" Kendall chirps, spinning in her chair. "We don't have any of your cases up here."

"No, uh, this is something different." He crosses the room and holds out the two sketches. "Can you do a search for this guy?"

"Sure." Kendall takes the sketches, studying them. "Who is he."

"He's…" Travis searches for a plausible lie. "He's a potential witness."

Kendall squints at him suspiciously, like she can smell the lie on him, but doesn't push. "Alright. What do you want me to search?"

"Everything," Travis answers immediately. "Anything in the last, like, ten years. Nationwide."

She gives him a flat stare. "Really? That's going to take a while."

"It's alright. It's not a priority."

One slim eyebrow goes up, and Travis can _see_ the question, but she doesn't say it. Just purses her lips and turns back to her computer screen. "Alright. I'll call you when it's done."

"Thanks, Ken." He leans down, gives her a quick squeeze. "You're the best."

"Don't you know it!" she laughs, waving him off. "Go, go away now. I have real work to do."

Travis laughs and allows himself to be shooed away.

**XXXX**

At the time, jumping the gap seemed like a really good idea. Travis blames the head wound—crowbars to the skull have a tendency to muddle things up a bit.

So here he is, dangling from the edge of a fourteen-story building, and he _knows_ he really ought to pull himself up but his body doesn't seem to be cooperating. That could be because of the head wound, or it could be the ten-minute foot chase that preceded the crowbar impacting his cranium.

So he's dangling there, and he's thinking that this would be a really shitty way to die, because it would be. He was a high school long jump champion, he goes and falls off a building and he'll never live it down. Or, his reputation won't, seeing as he'll be dead. (He's not thinking straight, okay?)

Paekman should have been right behind him, but Travis probably ran ahead, he does that, he just goes without looking to see if his partner is following. If he gets out of this, he'll definitely try to change his ways.

That, he thinks as his fingers start losing grip, is looking more and more unlikely.

Maybe if he swings his legs he can land on that fire escape eight, ten feet away. He'll probably break his legs but it might also break his fall.

He takes a breath and prepares to start swinging, and hands wrap around his wrists.

For a moment Travis thinks the suspect came back to finish him off. But then he looks up, and he sees a familiar blonde head leaning over the edge, backlit by the sun so he looks like he's glowing.

Travis grins, relaxing for reasons he can't even begin to describe. "My guardian angel," he says, something warm and relieved bubbles up in his chest.

(That, too, he'll blame on the head wound.)

He might be imagining it, but he thinks there's a look of panic on Blondie's face, quickly wiped away and replaced by the usual upset exasperation.

"I am not anyone's guardian angel," Blondie grunts, slowly hauling Travis up. "I am…a goddamn…_babysitter_." Travis pushes with his feet, and Blondie grabs the back of his shirt and pulls. With one last heave, Travis comes over the edge, collapsing on top of the other man.

He _feels_ real, warm and hard and alive under Travis. At this point Travis doesn't care if Death is real or imaginary or impossible, he's just glad the guy keeps showing up and saving him.

"Travis?" Blondie says.

Travis grunts, not wanting to move just yet.

"Travis, you're dripping on me."

He frowns, pushing up onto his elbows. There's blood on the blonde's face, and as Travis watches another drop falls onto his cheek.

"Oh shit, sorry." He scrabbles off, blinking off the dizziness moving too fast brings.

Blondie sits up, mouth turned down in a disgruntled scowl. "If," he says ominously, "you have a gaping head wound, you don't jump buildings, idiot!" He punches Travis's shoulder, which is enough to send Travis's head ringing.

When his ears clear and the stars in his eyes fade, Blondie is gone and Paekman is slamming open the door on the other roof.

"Travis!" his partner calls, running to the edge.

Travis gives Paekman a thumbs up, then slowly falls over.

**XXXX**

They get their guy, two days later. But Paekman pulls him aside after, a frown tugging his lips down.

"Man, what's going on with you?" he asks.

Travis shrugs. "Nothing." If 'nothing' means he's seeing someone who can't possibly be real, then sure, nothing's going on at all.

His partner stares at him like he's trying to see the truth on his skin. "You're sure?"

"Sure I'm sure." Travis waves a hand. "It's just…complicated."

An emissary of death who can't possibly exist but somehow _does_ keeps saving his life. 'Complicated' doesn't begin to describe it.

Paekman continues to stare at him a few more seconds, still frowning. "You'd tell me if something was going on, right?"

"Come on, you know I would."

Slowly, Paekman nods, but he doesn't look convinced. "Alright," he says, but he keeps watching Travis for the rest of the day.

**XXXX**

"I think I've got something for you," Kendall calls to say, and Travis bounds to her lab in haste, anticipation thudding in his ribs. She plucks him down in a chair and pulls up her screen.

"I did the search," she says, swiveling the monitor, "and these are the top five matches."

All the photos are similar—pale, blonde, blue-eyed men with high cheekbones and sharp angles. But Travis only needs a second to recognize the right guy, somehow managing to portray disdain and annoyance even in a DMV photograph.

"This one." Travis taps the screen. "Number four. That's him."

"Yeah, I thought he was the best match too." Kendall types at her keyboard. "But I doubt he's going to be a witness."

Anticipation turns heavy, and his stomach twists. "Why not?"

"Because this man—" She enlarges the picture, filling the screen. "Wesley Mitchell, died five years ago."

**XXXX**

Travis spends a week pouring over the file Kendall printed for him, learning everything he can about Wesley Mitchell, a.k.a. Travis's guardian angel-slash-babysitter.

Wes was a lawyer on the East Coast until a case went wrong. His client died, and a few days later Wes's car went off the road and wrapped around a tree.

There was an investigation, and because of 'inconclusive evidence' they ruled it an accident. Travis can read between the lines—someone threw money at the problem and no one mentioned the possibility of suicide again.

Travis studies the picture of Wes Mitchell, and it's like he can feel that sharp gaze on him right now.

"Wes," he says, giving name to the face, and it fits. "Wes."

Finding out his savior is dead isn't as much of a shock as it could be. It actually explains some things, like stopping time and teleporting and being there right when Travis needs him most.

It doesn't explain other things, like why Wes is saving him in the first place, or how he can possibly he here if he's _dead_.

"Wes Mitchell." Travis sits back, staring at the photo. "I wonder when I'll see you again."

He has some questions for his new friend.

**XXXX**

A dunk in the bay leads to a constant headache, the sniffles, and vertigo even when he's standing still. He gratefully goes home when the captain sends him, not even an hour after getting to work, and though he nearly kills himself on the drive, he makes it.

He barely has time to get into bed before he collapses. He doesn't even take his boots off.

The only time he gets up in the next twelve hours is to go to the bathroom, and that's really just to throw up. Mostly he stays in bed and wishes he were dead, he feels that shitty.

Sometime in the middle of the night, Travis hears a bitter, tired chuckle. He painstakingly turns his head and sees Wes on the edge of the bed, head in his hands.

"This is punishment, isn't it?" Wes plaintively asks no one. "This isn't a second chance like you said. I'm in Hell and this is my torment. Because no one could _possibly_ be this stupid." He turns to Travis. "Are you? Are you so stupid you gave yourself pneumonia?"

Travis coughs, a wet, thick sound.

Wes groans. "I want a new assignment." He runs his hands over his face. "Okay. I'm going to call an ambulance. Don't die while I'm gone."

He makes a move to get up, and Travis is struck by a sudden, completely irrational panic. His hand reaches out, snatching a handful of black cloth.

"Don't go," he mumbles, coughing. "Don't go, Wes."

The blonde's head snaps around, eyes going wide. "How did you…?"

Travis's eyes droop, but his fingers don't release Wes's robes. "Don't go, Wes."

Wes's face softens, and he settles back on the bed. "Okay," he murmurs, pressing his hand against Travis's forehead. "Okay, I won't go just yet."

Travis closes his eyes, feeling secure and reassured, and Wes's touch lingers long after he falls asleep, following him into his dreams.

**XXXX**

Wes doesn't leave. For nearly a week he's there at Travis's side spooning fluids down his throat and forcing pills into him. Through the shakes and the vomiting and the delirium, Wes is always just _there_, a constant, steady presence. Once, Travis thinks he sees someone else, a woman with dark hair and the same black robes Wes wears, but the next time he blinks she's gone and it's just Wes leaning over him.

And finally, _finally,_ after five days of sickness, Travis wakes up and feels mostly okay.

And Wes doesn't leave.

**XXXX**

"How did you find this?" Wes asks, flipping through the file.

Travis—able to feed himself now, yay!—blows on his spoon. "Had Kendall look it up." The soup is delicious and warm sliding down his throat, and Travis wonders if Wes made it himself. He knows he sure as hell didn't have anything like this in his fridge before he got sick.

"But how?" Wes frowns at the file. "You shouldn't have been able to get facial recognition."

The spoon pauses on the way to Travis's mouth, a dozen questions lingering on his tongue, but he doesn't ask them. It's a pretty safe bet Wes wouldn't answer them anyway.

Instead he says, "Had a sketch artist make your face, and Kendall did her magic."

The blonde rubs his thumb thoughtfully over his lips. "Yeah," he nods slowly, "that'll do it."

Travis spoons more soup into his mouth, because it's delicious and he doesn't plan to stop until it's gone. "So that _is_ you?" he asks. It's more confirmation than anything; it's _obviously_ Wes.

"Mm-hmm," the other man hums absently, still frowning down at whatever page he's looking at.

"And you're dead?" Travis pushes.

Wes barely glances up. "No. Yes. Sort of." His brow furrows. "_Technically? _It's complicated."

"Uh-huh." It seems awfully complicated, that's for sure.

Travis finishes the rest of his soup before asking, "Why do you keep saving me?"

"Because it's my job." Wes lifts his head from the file, only to glare at Travis. "I'm a glorified babysitter, is what I am."

"Yeah, no, you said that." Travis sets the bowl on the nightstand and chugs half a glass of water. "But _why?_ You're Death, aren't you supposed to be, y'know, _taking_ me?"

With a huff, Wes sets the file down into his lap. "Okay, let's make this clear. I'm not capital-D death, I'm a death."

"_A_ death." Travis raises one eyebrow. "Like…the death of falling down stairs?"

"No, dumbass, like it's an occupation, not a lifestyle choice. _A_ plumber. _A_ businessman. _A_ death."

"Okay…" Sure, Travis will go with that. "So you're _a_ death. But why keep saving me?"

Wes gives him a _How can you be this stupid and still be alive?_ look. "I _told_ you. It's my _job_."

"But why _me?_" Travis's hands flail in frustration. "I do enough stupid stuff to get killed on a daily basis—"

"Don't I know it," Wes grumbles under his breath.

Travis barrels on. "So why are you or your superiors or _whoever_ so keen on keeping me alive? _Why me?_"

Because there are dozens of other people out there who have died, people who had long good lives ahead of them. Travis is nothing special, and he knows it. So why are higher powers conspiring to save him?

Those ice cold eyes rake over his face, searching for god-knows what. But Wes must find it because he sits back with a sigh.

"Some things," he says slowly, "need to happen. Events that are so important they _must_ happen or the world will fall apart. And some people need to be saved so those events happen."

Travis's hands drop into his lap, and he leans back into his pillows with a smug grin. "So I'm important, am I?"

"Not really," Wes says, shooting the smugness down in an instant. "It could be your children," (Travis scoffs) "or someone you save. You're just a linchpin. But if you die, necessary events don't happen."

Running it through his head, it sure _sounds_ like Wes is saying he's important. He grins at the blonde. "No, I think that means I'm important."

Pointing accusingly, Wes scowls. "I never said that."

"It sounded like you did."

"I _never_ said that." Wes rises to his feet, tossing the file onto the chair. "But if that's what you think, then stop being so reckless. Getting yourself killed won't help anybody." He turns to the door with a swish of his robes.

Before he can make his grand escape, Travis calls, "Wes?" The blonde pauses, glancing back, and Travis gives him a sincere, slightly shy smile. "Thanks, man. For staying."

The ice thaws, just a little, and one corner of Wes's mouth turns up. "There's more soup in the fridge. Take the antibiotics at dinner and stop almost dying."

"I'll do my best," Travis laughs, reaching for the glass of water again.

When he looks up, Wes is gone.

**XXXX**

Travis tries. He really does. He gets back to work and he honestly tries to reign in his reckless impulses. He's _important_, and his staying alive is important. Plus, Wes sat with him for five days so Travis kind of owes the guy.

But it's hard to care about the fate of the world when people are in trouble.

He has a date with Melinda, really promising and sure to end nicely, but halfway through dinner he calls it quits. He isn't sure why—he's never had problems going out with beautiful women before. He just isn't feeling it.

He's almost home when the police cars race by. Two—no, three cars, zipping through the light, and every cop instinct in Travis perks up. He throws his bike in gear and follows the cars.

He smells the smoke two blocks away, but it's still a shock when he rounds the corner. An entire apartment building is on fire, a crowd of people in front in the flashing lights. The police cars scream to a stop and uniforms jump out, herding people back.

As Travis pulls up, a woman lunges for the building, screaming. Travis grabs her, holding her away from the inferno.

"Ma'am, you can't go in there!" he shouts, trying to be heard over the roaring flames. "You'll burn to a crisp!"

The woman whirls on him, babbling frantically and pointing to the building.

"My child!" he finally discerns, over the noise. "My child! My boy is in there!"

Of _course_ he is. Travis looks up the street, but the fire trucks aren't there yet and in a few minutes there'll be no way in.

"Where is he?" Travis demands, shaking the woman to get her attention. "Where's your child?"

She stares at him with wide eyes. "On the fourth floor. He went back for the dog. That _stupid boy!_" She turns to the building again.

Travis hauls her back, gives her another shake. "What's his name? Lady, what's your son's name?!"

She turns back to him blankly. "Luca. His name is Luca."

Travis takes a breath, looking at the building. There's a little boy trapped inside and no one else to save him. The fate of the world doesn't seem so important after all.

"Stay here," he orders, releasing her and jogging towards the building. "Stay right here. I'll bring him back to you!"

He races past the police, ducking through the crowd. He hears a shout, but it's too late; he's already inside.

It is _exactly_ like any fire he's ever seen on TV. A wild explosion of flames, greedily devouring everything in its path. But the television never conveyed the heat, like standing in the heart of the sun, or the smoke choking its way down his throat.

Travis pulls his shirt over his nose and mouth and plunges deeper inside.

He finds the stairs, and it looks stable enough. He takes a breath, coughs for half a minute, and races up as fast as he can, four at a time.

_If you didn't take them four at a time_, Wes once said, but look how well it's doing him now.

The fourth floor is only slightly less volcanic than the first. Through hacking coughs, Travis moves down the hall, calling, "Luca! Luca! Where are you, buddy?"

He doesn't hear the boy, but he hears the dog, tiny, terrified yips that just barely travel over the howling flames. He follows the sound, ducking into an apartment that's still a raging inferno.

_Now_ he can hear the boy, calling for help. He ducks into a bedroom and follows the sound of both dog and child, emanating from a closet. Travis yanks open the door, and two pairs of terrified eyes stare up at him.

"Luca?" Travis wheezes, and the boys nods. "Come on, bud." He holds out his hands. "Your mom's waiting for you."

The boy climbs up, clutching a wriggling puppy to his chest. Travis grabs a shirt from the closet and drapes it over the kid's head.

"Is there a fire escape?" Travis hollers, staggering out of the room.

Luca's head shakes. "It's down the hall," he coughs, and Travis tucks the boy's covered face against his shoulder.

"I'll find it, buddy," he says, "you just save your breath."

Bracing himself, Travis heads back out into the hall.

He immediately sees the sign for the fire escape, ten feet down the hall. Unfortunately, there's a curtain of flames in the way. He chances a glance back, but the path to the stairs is even more inaccessible.

Travis takes a shallow breath, braces himself, and hopes Wes's duty and sheer dumb luck is enough to keep him alive. Then he starts moving.

It's actually not as bad as it looks. There are some open spaces he can duck through without getting too burned, and it's hot but not scald-your-flesh-off hot, so long as he doesn't linger. He gets halfway down the hall and he even starts to think he's going to make it.

There's a loud 'crack' from above. Travis glances up to see the ceiling split, and he has just enough time to tuck Luca and the dog beneath him before the ceiling comes down on his back.

It hurts. No, that's not a strong enough word. It's absolutely _agonizing_, and even though he knows he needs to get moving, all he can do is lie there groaning.

And then it stops. The roar of the fire goes quiet and the pain in his back fades and even the air gets a degree or two cooler.

Travis looks up. Then he recoils from a flame, inches from his face, frozen like a photograph.

"You never make it easy, do you?" Wes asks, and Travis sees him picking his way down the hall, moving gingerly around stationary flames.

Something relieved and warm explodes in Travis's chest, and it's got nothing to do with the fire. "Wes." Despite the situation, he thinks he might be smiling. "Is this the part where you yell at me for being stupid?"

Wes crouches down in front of Travis, eyes softer than Travis has ever seen him. "Not today." His gaze goes to the top of Luca's head, the only part visible beneath Travis's protective huddle. "I think today we can count this as an acceptable risk."

"And look," Travis coughs, rolling slightly. Luca and the puppy are both frozen like the flames, but that isn't as disconcerting as it could be. "I even saved the dog."

"You even saved the dog," Wes says, all fond, exasperated amusement in the words. He reaches out, palm resting on top of Travis's head, and Travis has to resist the urge to curl up into the touch like a cat. "You did good, Travis."

Again, that warm explosion in his chest, but now is neither the time not the place to examine it too closely.

Wes pulls away, and Travis pretends he doesn't feel bereft. "But you're not there yet," he says, carefully hauling chunks of plaster off Travis's back. "Just a little bit farther, Travis. Once you get to the fire escape, it's a straight shot down."

"Wes." Travis grabs one sleeve, swallowing around a dry throat. "You won't leave?"

The blonde pauses, resting his hand over Travis's. "When time starts again, you won't see me. But I promise, I won't leave you." He gently tugs free of Travis's grasp, pushing the rest of the rubble away. "Okay, here we go."

"You won't leave?" Travis demands one last time, tucking Luca and the dog against his chest.

"I _swear_." Wes pulls him to his feet and gives him a hard shove. "Now _go!_"

Time leaps into action, the flames racing for him with a vengeance. Luca is wailing, the dog is barking like crazy, and Wes is nowhere to be seen.

But Travis can feel him, right by his side, pushing him forward and calling encouragements. So even though his legs feel like jelly and it burns to breathe, he pushes on.

Somehow he manages to stagger onto the fire escape. The evening air outside, heated from proximity to the flames, is still a cool relief compared to the inferno inside.

Travis takes a full minute to catch his breath. "Look, Luca," he gasps, a grin tugging his lips. "We're almost there."

He's never been so exhausted going down stairs before, and two stories down every ache and bruise and burn comes back full force.

But the tearful joy on Luca's mother's face makes every inch of pain worth it.

He hands Luca and the puppy over, and a paramedic rushes forward. Right before he's dragged to the waiting ambulance, Travis sees Wes, on the edge of the crowd, smiling at him with what almost looks like pride.

That makes it worth it too.

**XXXX**

"We need to talk."

Travis snorts, eyeing his partner. "Are you breaking up with me?"

Paekman doesn't even crack a smile. "Come with me." He walks off toward the break room before Travis can even say anything.

Frowning, Travis follows. Paekman is leaning against the counter, his face worried and pensive and it's not a great look on his happy-go-lucky friend. Gently shutting the door behind him, Travis frowned. "What's up, man?"

"What's up?" Paekman turns on him, going from pensively worried to frustrated and upset in a moment. "What's up with_ you_?"

"Me?" This is a turn Travis didn't expect the conversation to take. "I'm fine."

"Fine?" Paekman scoffs. "Yeah, that's what I thought when I found out you were in the hospital _again_. You were just _fine._"

"Is this about last week?" Travis rubs his arm, trying not to scratch at the bandages beneath. His burns have mostly healed, but some of the larger ones are still healing and even though they kind of itch all the time, scratching doesn't help anything. "Man, I saved a kid and his dog. I'm pretty much a hero."

"I don't care about the kid and the dog!" Paekman practically shouts, slamming his hand on the counter. "I _don't_! I care about _you_, and the fact that you seem intent on sticking your neck out at every opportunity!"

Travis just stares at him. "You don't…I _saved_ a _kid_, Paekman. _And _the dog. There was no one else there, what did you want me to do? Leave them to burn?"

"I—" Paekman takes a breath and runs his hand over his face. "No, of course not. I just want you to _think_ about yourself every once in a while."

"Paekman…" That's awfully close to what Wes says whenever he shows up, but Travis isn't quite sure why Paekman is saying it. "Man, I'm fine, the kid is safe, the dog is safe. It was an acceptable risk."

That doesn't mollify his partner at all. If anything, it incenses him even more, and he glares sharply at Travis. "An acceptable risk? Is that what you call it?" He starts pacing the break room, shoulders tense and hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. "And was it an _acceptable risk_ when you jumped a gap with a bleeding head wound? Was it an _acceptable risk_ when you ran off and got electrocuted and your heart almost stopped? Or how about that time you went in without backup and got shot in the head? Hmm? Was _that_ an _acceptable risk?_"

"Yes!" Travis bristles. "It was!"

"No it _wasn't_!" Paekman whirls on him, stomping over to jab at Travis's chest. "I'll give you the kid in the burning building, okay, it's not like there was anyone else rushing in to rescue him, but the rest of it? That was just you being impatient and reckless and an _idiot!_" He takes a step back, breathing harshly through his nose. "You're going to get yourself killed, Travis. I'm not going to watch that happen."

Travis tenses, crossing his arms. "It's fine. It always turns out fine."

Paekman just stares at him. "That's because you're damn lucky. But one day your luck is going to run out and _I'll_ have to tell your family why you died. You think I really want to have that conversation?"

"It's not going to come to that," Travis protests, thinking about Wes. His reluctant guardian angel whose job is to keep him safe, for the sake of the world.

"You don't _know_ that," Paekman insists. His hands come out, beseechingly. "Travis, please. Just _think_ a little. Don't just run into things anymore. Wait for backup."

"Or what?" It comes out more challenging than he means; he knows Paekman means well, and he's not completely sure why he's defensive.

(Only he knows he's defensive because he maybe thinks Paekman is _right_.)

Paekman sighs, suddenly looking sad and resigned. "I'm not threatening you here, Travis. I just want you to watch out for yourself. Stop throwing yourself into these situations without looking first."

Travis bites back a sharp reply and forces himself to relax. It's not an attack, it's just his best friend worrying about him. And Paekman has a point—hasn't Wes told him, over and over? He's a reckless pain in the butt who nearly dies .83 times a day. He _does_ need to be careful.

"Okay," he says, dropping his arms. "Okay. I'll try." Hesitatingly, he eyes his partner. "We good?"

Paekman sighs again. "Yeah, Travis. We're good."

He doesn't sound like he thinks they're good at all. Travis watches him exit the break room and something unpleasant knots in his stomach.

**XXXX**

"You should listen to your friend, you know."

"Jesus!" Travis jumps half a foot in the air, glaring at Wes. "Where the _hell_ did you come from?"

Wes gives him that patented _Are you stupid?_ look. "I'm on duty. Which means I'm always here, following your stupid ass around."

"I'm sorry, _what?_" Travis gapes at the blonde. "You just…follow me around all day?"

"How else do you think I'm there in time to save you? You think magic fairy dust gets me here whenever you're in trouble?" Wes shakes his head, huffing. "Seriously, _how_ do you stay alive, because I'm just not getting it."

"I stay alive because of you," Travis says sweetly, which just causes Wes to pull a face. "Speaking of, why are you here? I'm not having a near-death experience."

"You will if you eat those tacos," Wes says, nodding towards the food truck.

Travis stares up the line, watching the cook hand someone their food. The line inches forward, and Travis's stomach rumbles. "Man, really?"

"Really," Wes confirms with a tiny nod of his head. "You should call the health inspector. And you should listen to your friend. He's got a good point."

"You're just saying that because you want your job to be easier," Travis grumbles.

"That doesn't mean it's not true." Without another word, Wes disappears, and Travis tries really hard to _not_ think about Wes hovering over his shoulder all the time. Okay, it kind of makes sense, how else can a guardian angel guard his charge if he's not there watching? But it's still a little weird.

Travis looks at the food truck again, and his stomach rumbles again.

Then he sighs and steps out of line, pulling out his phone. "Man, I loved those tacos," he groans, pulling up the number for the health inspector.

**XXXX**

Three people get _E. coli_ from the tacos. One person almost dies, but eventually pulls through. The food truck is shut down.

Travis sulks for a week. He _really_ loved those tacos.

**XXXX**

Despite knowing that Wes is dogging his every step and Paekman is watching him more closely than ever, Travis finds it's a lot harder to just _not_ dive into danger than he thought. He gets in the heat of the moment and there's no time to think, no extra seconds to plot out the best course of action. There's only time to move, and react, and it's hard not to follow his instincts when that happens.

He _is_ trying, okay, he is, but when his suspect is racing down an alley with a gun in his hand, there's no time to think _I need to wait for backup and try not to get shot,_ because this guy has already proven himself erratic and if that gun goes off and hits someone…

Travis just can't let that happen.

Paekman is right behind him, but Travis has always been a faster runner than his friend. He springs out of the mouth of the alley in time to see their guy darting between cars. Horns blare and tires squeal, but the suspect makes it through, the Little Frogger that Could.

There's no time to wait. Travis plunges into the street.

He's halfway across when he hears his name. Even though he knows he shouldn't be distracted, that he has to get to the other side or he'll be flattened, he hesitates, glancing back at Paekman on the other side of the street. His partner's staring at him, eyes wide, mouth open in a huge, scared shout.

A horn screams at him.

He suddenly knows what people mean when they say time slows down, because it's like all the world reduces speed as he turns his head. Time slows down, and all his senses get a boost. He sees the startled, scared face of the woman behind the wheel. Can see every scrape in the silver truck's paint. He can feel the entirety of his body, his lungs expanding, his blood pumping, his muscles shifting.

There is a moment here, an important, monumental moment for him to decide what to do. He could give himself one last extra push, leap out of the way of the truck like a gazelle. Or he could freeze. Fight or flight, and Travis knows how a fight between him and the truck would end.

In that split second, he's already tensing his legs, ready to push off.

And then he has a thought.

_I could see him._

It's nothing. A millisecond within a moment.

But it's everything.

The tension releases in his legs. He freezes. And time snaps back into motion.

He feels the impact of the grill, right in the middle of his chest. There's no pain, surprisingly, just pressure and the weightless feeling of flying through the air.

He hits the ground hard, but there's still no pain. He's been at enough accident sites to know that's never a good thing. No, he's really not feeling anything at all, his vision is starting to tunnel, and wow, this was really stupid.

_I fucked up_, he thinks, and he sends every apologetic thought he can to both his partner and his guardian angel. _I fucked up. I'm sorry._

"Oh, no you don't."

Travis's eyes flutter, just enough for him to see Wes leaning over him, a scowl on his face somewhere between angry and fearful.

"Oh, no, you don't get to just die on me, not after all the times I've saved your stupid ass." Wes fades in and out of view as Travis's eyesight goes, but his voice stays strong. "You hear me, Travis? Don't you dare die. Travis!"

Exhaling slowly, Travis closes his eyes.

"Travis!"

**XXXX**

He floats.

He sees, from far away, himself, lying on the street. Wes is kneeling over him, pounding on his chest. Travis can't help but wonder what everyone else is seeing—probably not a blonde guy in floor-length black robes giving him CPR.

Paekman is pacing by his body, shouting into his phone. The woman from the truck is on her knees, crying into her hands, and a bystander is holding her. Other people are crowding around, and traffic has all but stopped.

But all Travis can focus on is the look on Wes's face, anguished and upset as he tries to bring Travis back.

_I'm sorry_, he thinks, knowing there's no way for Wes to hear it now. _I'm sorry. I fucked up. But sometimes it's just time to go._

_I'm sorry, Wes._

And he floats.

**XXXX**

_Not yet, Travis Marks._

_Not yet._

_It's not your time._

_Go back._

**XXXX**

His eyes snap open and he's in a hospital corridor, lights flashing by overhead. There are people talking around him, and Paekman is yelling outside his line of vision, and oh _shit_, now he can feel the pain, coursing through him, radiating from his chest outward.

And there's Wes, kneeling on top of the gurney—invisible, presumably, or there'd be a huge fuss—leaning over him and he looks anxious, like he actually _cares_.

"Travis, you have to hang on. You have to just hang on. Don't you dare do this, dammit. You're a fighter, so _fight!"_

A part of Travis smiles, the part that made him stop in front of the car in the first place. That part of him breathes a sigh of relief at the sight of Wes and thinks, _I knew I'd get to see you again._

The rest of him is overwhelmed by the pain of his injuries, and he falls back into blissful unconsciousness.

**XXXX**

The next time he awakes, there's no pain. Travis thinks that's definitely not a good thing, until he hears the beep of a heart monitor. Turning his head takes a thousand years of effort, but he manages. He sees an IV, no doubt delivering the really good drugs. Then, beyond, he sees Paekman, slumped in the chair, fast asleep. He looks exhausted, his hair at every angle, and there're bags under his eyes and lines around his mouth that Travis doesn't remember.

And Wes is there too, sitting in the other chair. He's completely still, but he's not sleeping. His face is in shadow but his eyes catch the light like a cat's, glittering as they stare right at Travis.

He shifts, coughing slightly. "Wes?" It comes out as a hoarse, undignified rasp.

Those sharp eyes blink once in acknowledgement.

And then Wes is gone, disappeared from the chair in an instant, without a single word. He doesn't even stick around to rant at Travis like he usually does.

Travis feels unexpectedly bereft.

**XXXX**

Paekman stays for most of the next few days. He doesn't say much, and more often than not Travis catches him sitting in the chair, watching Travis with a brooding, pensive look on his face.

Whenever Travis asks what's wrong, Paekman says it's nothing. "Focus on getting better, man. Get out of the hospital."

One time, Travis makes a joke about getting frequent flyer miles, and Paekman's face twists and Travis thinks he's about to cry. He doesn't make that joke again.

People visit. Coworkers, a lot of family members, even some of his exes. He gets a ton of gifts and get well cards, more than he's gotten the last few times he was in the hospital. Apparently his heart stopped twice in the ambulance, and people tend to get a little freaked out by that sort of thing.

Wes doesn't come back, even though Travis looks for him at night, when everyone else has left. He searches for the blonde in the shadowed corners of the room, hoping the other man will materialize out of thin air and keep him company, the way he did when Travis was sick.

But Wes never comes, and Travis is alone.

It upsets him. He doesn't look too deeply into why.

**XXXX**

He's finally released. Paekman gives him a ride home; they don't talk much. By the time he's made it to the top of the stairs, he's exhausted and ready to fall into bed. He barely manages to get the keys in the lock, and all he can think about is changing and climbing under the covers.

He opens the door, and the lights are on, and people are sitting in his living room.

He blinks.

"Hi."

There's Kendall, and Randi. Kate and Amy. Even Jonelle is sitting on the end of the couch, looking surly and annoyed.

Travis looks around. "Uh…is this a welcome home party?" he asks hopefully, though he can tell it's really not. They all look solemn and worried, and parties are so much more fun.

Paekman closes the door behind him and gently guides Travis into the room. "Travis, we're your friends, and we're worried about you."

Travis stares at his partner. Then he looks around the room, taking in all the solemn faces around him.

Slowly, he sinks into the open armchair with a tired laugh. "My god, is this an intervention? Really?"

Kendall leans forward, small face earnest. "We want to help you, Travis."

"There's nothing _to_ help!"

"Says the man who just got out of a week at the hospital," Jonelle snaps. "Again."

"Why are you even here?" Travis shoots at her. "You don't even like me."

"Doesn't mean I want to see you on my slab," she snaps back, glaring at him.

Travis sits back with a sardonic chuckle. "Wow. This is _ridiculous_." His gaze goes to Kate and Amy. "Even you two?"

The two women share a look. "We have noticed you've been rather…" Kate trails off, searching for a word.

"Erratic," Amy supplies.

"Erratic." Kate nods. "You've been erratic lately, and we've been…concerned."

"Wow." Travis shakes his head, glaring at Paekman. "And I suppose you're the one who organized this?"

Randi leans forward. "Travis, he's only trying to help. He's worried. We're all worried."

"Well, that's fantastic, but I don't need it. I'm _fine_." He rises to his feet. Pain twinges his ribs, but he's too upset to even grimace. "And since I _just_ got out of the hospital, literally an hour ago, I'm ready to go to bed. You can show yourselves out." He has to move gingerly to avoid aggravating his wounds, which really cuts down on the dramatic exit, but he doesn't let that stop him.

"Travis," Randi says behind him.

He doesn't look back. "Good night, everyone."

He shuts the door quietly, and it seems louder than a slam.

**XXXX**

Paekman finds him in the bedroom, awkwardly trying to change his clothes. Travis gives up on the task to whirl on his friend.

"What the _hell_, man?"

Paekman shuts the door, glaring at him. "I could ask you the same."

"Me?" Travis barks a laugh. "I'm not the one who organized a _completely_ unnecessary intervention. You could have given me some warning!"

"So what, you could slip away while I wasn't looking? Yeah right." His partner paces in front of the door. "And it wasn't unnecessary at all. If you weren't so stubborn, you'd _see_ that."

"Excuse you? I'm _fine_."

"You are _not_ fine, Travis!" It's almost a roar, and it's a shock coming from his normally soft-spoken friend. Paekman turns on him, gesturing angrily. "You're not _fine. _Look at you! You're a mess! You've been in the hospital more times in the last few months than you have all year, and this is the worst one yet. Next time you're gonna _actually_ die and they won't be able to bring you back!"

"I'm doing my _job_, Paekman."

"Really? Are you?" The other male stomps forward. "I _saw_ you, Travis. That pickup was coming right for you and you didn't even _try_ to get out of the way. You _let it hit you_. And you say you don't have a problem?"

Travis pushes him away. "I'm _fine_." He grabs his fallen shirt and pulls it on, if only so Paekman will stop staring accusingly at his bruised ribs.

"You're _not_. And I think you know it." Paekman takes a long breath, fingers clenching by his sides. "Look, Travis, I know some people, good people who can help this sort of thing—"

"I don't need therapy, man," Travis snorts. "I've had enough of that in my life." He perches on the end of the bed, glaring at his partner. "If you're so worried about this, if you think I'm such a dangerto myself, why haven't you told the captain yet? Gotten me pulled from field duty?"

"Because you're my _friend_, Travis!" Paekman is practically trembling. "You're my best friend, and I don't want this to go on your record. It won't do your career any good. I'm _hoping_ you'll admit there's a problem and get help on your own, so I won't _have_ to go to the captain."

"I don't need help." Travis stubbornly crosses his arms. Then he drops them as his ribs shout pain at him. "I told you. I'm _fine_."

The look his friend sends him is sad and resigned. "I wish I could believe you." He turns to the doorway with a sigh. "The next time you end up in the hospital, I _am_ telling the captain, and he _will_ have to pull you."

He pauses at the doorway, and he's muttering under his breath but Travis can still hear it.

"I just hope next time won't be the time that finally kills you."

**XXXX**

Halfway through the night, Travis wakes. He doesn't move, doesn't open his eyes, just feigns sleep for a minute while he assesses the situation.

Cloth moves, and the bed dips a little. Then there's a heavy sigh, and Travis never thought he'd be able to identify someone by the way they _sighed_. He relaxes.

"Oh, Travis," Wes murmurs. Travis can feel the blonde's gaze on him, slowly moving over his still form. "What am I going to do with you?"

Travis wishes he had an answer, because his chest aches hearing the other male sound do defeated. Or maybe it's just his ribs.

There's another quiet sigh, and then there's nothing, and the bed flattens out again. Slowly, Travis opens his eyes, but Wes is already gone.

**XXXX**

Okay. So his career is on the line here. That's different. Fate of the world, schmate of the world, but his _job_…well, Travis is going to take care of that. He doesn't have much outside of his job.

It's easier to put in the effort this time around. The loss or suspension of his job is a _tangible_ threat, and he knows Paekman will go through with it. Staying alive for the fate of the world, well, Wes will make sure that happens. But Travis isn't willing to lose his job over this.

So he tries. He really, honestly tries. And for the most part, it's working. He still goes a little too fast sometimes, still jumps the gun, but he makes it through two cases without ending up at the hospital. He can almost feel Paekman relaxing his watch-dog gaze.

Then he gets shot.

And it's not even his fault.

**XXXX**

They're going after drug dealers, teamed up with Narco & Vice to take down an entire ring. Being drug dealers, the bad guys don't want to come in quietly, so they hole up in a warehouse and start shooting. It's actually going fairly well. They're holding their own, and Travis thinks they might just make it out of this unscathed.

Then he sees the drug dealer, sneaking around the side of the warehouse. Trying to get behind the cops to take them down from behind. And his first target is…

"Paekman! Get down!" Travis leaps up, shooting at the sneak. A lucky shot bounces off a shelf, and Travis hears the grunt as the dealer falls. It's perfect. Paekman is fine, and the dealer is down.

But Travis is now open and exposed, and there are more dealers with guns.

"Travis!" Paekman hollers. Travis scrambles up, tries to get back behind cover—

Bullets slam into him, knocking him back to the ground. Another bullet ricochets off the concrete floor, burrowing under his vest, and all the breath goes out of him.

The last thing he sees is Paekman rushing over, grabbing him and starting to drag him to safety. Then everything goes black.

**XXXX**

He wakes in the ambulance, hearing the sirens screaming as they race down the road. Paramedics work frantically around him, but there's one beacon of stillness in the chaos; a black-robed, hooded figure in the corner. Travis can't see his face, but he knows he's watching him.

He smiles, a little blearily, one hand reaching out. "Wes…"

The hooded figure leans forward, two hands slowly coming up. Then the figure pushes the hood back, and it's not Wes at all. It's a woman with dark hair and curious eyes the same deathly blue as Wes's.

"Actually," she says, "I'm Alex."

The paramedics are still working, but they don't seem to notice Alex or the fact that Travis is talking to her. Travis doesn't even try to understand how that works. "Where's Wes?" he asks. "I've never seen you before."

Alex blinks, tilting her head a little. "Wes took a personal day."

"Death needs personal days?"

"He does." She leans forward, hands clasped under her chin. "You wanted to see Wes? Why?"

Travis thinks about all the times Wes has saved him, every time he's about to die. How he feels a sense of relief whenever he spots those black robes or hears that annoyed voice, because Wes is _a_ death but his job is to keep Travis alive.

He thinks about the way Wes smiled in a burning building and said, _You did good_, or the way he frantically gave Travis CPR after the accident, or even the way he read off a list of all the near-death experiences Travis had had.

He thinks about the cold empty spot in his gut when he found out Wes was dead and how much he just wants to see Wes, and he swallows hard.

"No reason," he lies, and hopes she can't hear it in his voice. There is a reason, but it's not one he's willing to admit to a complete stranger.

She watches him, eyes dark and unfathomable. Finally, she leans back. "Close your eyes, Travis Marks," she orders, stern but not sharp. "I'll watch over you. You'll be safe."

With a sigh, he does as she said, letting his eyes fall shut. He immediately starts to drift off, and he can feel her presence, standing guard to make sure he doesn't die and go off to the next plane or wherever. No different from when Wes does it.

But Alex isn't Wes, and Travis feels the difference all too keenly.

**XXXX**

His first visitor, when he's well enough to have visitors, is the captain.

Sutton comes in solemn-faced, and he doesn't sit down. "Your partner," he says slowly, "has brought some concerns to my attention." Travis winces, and the captain nods. "I see. And you know about these concerns?"

"I do," Travis admits, because what else is going to say? No? Lying won't help right now. Lying would just make it seem like he's completely oblivious to his own recklessness, and that won't help his case at all.

"Right." Sutton nods, studying him. Finally, he sighs. "You're my best detective, Travis, but I have to admit, your partner has a point. I've never had anyone under my command end up in the hospital as much as you do. I'm surprised you don't have a room here with your name on it."

"Someone drew my name on one of the ER beds in Sharpie," Travis jokes weakly. At the look on Sutton's face, he coughs. "Sorry, sir. Not funny."

The captain sighs. "I'm going to have to make a report, Travis. I'm sorry, but I can't just ignore it when one of my detectives brings me something like this."

Travis's stomach twists. An official report means it's going in his record. It means psych evals and talking to shrinks and desk duty until he's cleared. It means absolutely nothing good.

He swallows. "I understand, sir."

Sutton nods. "Try not to be too hard on your partner, Travis," he says softly, moving towards the door. "He's just looking out for you."

Travis nods, and has to bite his lip to keep from saying anything stupid.

**XXXX**

The first words out of Paekman's mouth are, "I'm sorry, man, but it's for your own good," which doesn't actually make Travis less upset with him.

Like, he can understand where Paekman is coming from, he really can. His partner is worried and thinks he's doing what's best for Travis.

But at the same time, Travis just got suspended from the job he lives for because his partner doesn't think he can take care of himself. (Also, his partner doesn't know about the guardian angel-slash-death keeping Travis alive, so…) Travis has been actively trying _not_ to get himself killed, and he still gets benched. He's a little upset.

"I get where you're coming from," Travis tells his partner, because he does, he really does see what Paekman is doing here, "but I'm pissed at you."

Paekman sighs. "I told you I'd do it, Travis. I did."

"I know. I'm still pissed."

"Okay." The other male nods. "Okay. What do you want me to do?"

Travis clenches his fists, feels his stitches pull, and reminds himself that Paekman is just looking out for him. It's not fair to blow up at Paekman because he got shot.

"I think," he says slowly, "you should give me a little space, because I really can't be rational right now. Also, I got shot."

"Okay." Paekman nods a little. "Fair enough."

And Travis feels like a jerk, because it's _not_ fair. It's not fair to get mad at a friend who's only trying to help, but Travis _is_ angry and he can't help himself. Which is why he's trying to do the rational thing and put some distance between them before he ruins their friendship.

It's not fair to Paekman, not really. But it's better than blowing up at him and losing their bond completely.

**XXXX**

Wes doesn't come to visit him once while he's recovering. Travis tries not to be upset about that, too.

**XXXX**

Coming home is a relief. After so many days in the hospital, the thought of his own bed almost makes him cry. He'll probably get fed up with it by the time he's off sick leave, but for now, he can't wait to crawl under his own blankets on his own mattress. It's like a dream come true.

He flips on the light and almost has a heart attack.

"Jesus, Wes, what the hell?"

The blonde sits in the armchair, facing the door like every bad movie villain ever. The look on his face is dark enough to match, scowling fiercely at Travis. Though why he's upset, Travis has no idea, it's not like he's having a near-death experience right now. Right?

"I'm not dead, right?" Travis asks quickly. "And I'm not dying?"

"Not yet," Wes says, and his voice is brittle and shaking a little, like he's just about to explode any second now.

"Not yet," Travis repeats, inching into the room. "Depending on…?"

"Depending on the outcome of this conversation," Wes informs him. He leans back, crossing long legs in front of him. "Depending on what you say, I might kill you myself."

And that's when Travis realizes that Wes is wearing a neat, grey suit, not the black robes Travis is used to seeing him in. "Your clothes…" He comes up with the answer pretty quickly; he was shot in the chest, not the head. "You're not on duty right now."

Wes nods his head a miniscule amount. "Correct. Do you want to know why?" Before Travis can offer any suggestions, Wes says, "I was _suspended_."

The first thing out his mouth is, "Hey, me too."

Judging by the thunderous look on Wes's face, this was _not_ the right thing to say.

"I take _one day_ off," Wes says softly, rising to his feet like a viper, "and I come back to find my charge in the hospital. _Again_. Because only _you_ could get shot in the chest _while wearing a bulletproof vest_." They're pretty much the same height, but Wes looms in front of Travis, and right now, Travis is not getting any guardian angel vibes off the blonde. They're all death-is-coming-for-you vibes.

"You got suspended for that?" Travis asks, swallowing.

Wes takes a step back, and suddenly Travis can breathe.

"No," the blonde snaps, pacing in front of the couch. "No, I got suspended because while you were in the hospital my superiors decided to look at your records. And they decided that the reason you're having so many near-death experiences must be because I can't do my job right." He whirls on Travis. "I am _under review_, Travis. Do you know what that means? _I am under review._"

Somehow, from the way he says it, Travis is guessing that's just as bad in the world of death as it is in the real world.

"But none of that was your fault," Travis protests. "You did your job. I was the one who kept nearly dying."

"I know!" Wes throws his hands in the air. "_I _did what I was supposed to. It's not _my_ fault my charge is an idiot who can't keep from throwing himself in front of bullets."

"Hey!"

"Did you know," Wes ignores him, "that before you I had a _stellar_ record? Absolutely stellar. And then you came along, and you…you just…ugh!" Wes makes strangling motions with his hands, a stifled, angry sound falling out of his mouth. "Sometimes I just want to—!"

Travis shifts, wincing, and decides if he's in for a rant he might as well be comfortable. He just got shot, after all. He slowly lowers himself onto the couch, watching the blonde pace.

"To be fair, you did a stellar job of keeping me alive," Travis points out. "Surely that counts for something."

"You would think," Wes mutters sourly. He plops gracefully back into the chair, glowering at Travis. "Are you suicidal?"

"What? No!"

Wes studies him. "Good. I won't deal with that again."

And Travis knows there's a story there, a story he desperately wants to hear about. But now is not the time, and Wes wouldn't tell him anyway. He bites his lip to keep from asking, because it'll probably only anger Wes more.

The blonde leans back, fingers tapping at the arm of the chair. "So if you're not suicidal, then it's a deathwish? You want to go out in a blaze of glory, saving the world, and you don't care if you make it or not."

"No!" Travis shifts under that sharp glare. "Well, okay, maybe a little. I mean, if I do go out, that'd be a damn good way to go but… no! I don't _want_ to die. Honest. I don't."

Wes's eye twitches. "Then why," he says slowly, "do you keep almost dying?"

Travis opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.

The truth is, he doesn't _know_ why. Not entirely. There's something there, he thinks, something that draws him into these situations, but he's always been like that. Maybe Wes has a point, maybe he has a little bit of a deathwish, because he's never wanted to take the boring old-age route out. Blaze of glory, that's a damn good way to go.

But there's something different now, something that's shifted in the past few months and Travis keeps nearly dying and the only thing that's changed is Wes.

Travis sees Wes when he almost dies, and that's changed everything.

He shifts awkwardly and tries to figure out the least creepy way to word it so Wes doesn't snap and murder him (which, going purely by the look on Wes's face, is entirely possible).

And still nothing comes out, because he's never been a man of words.

Wes's eye twitches. "Alright then. Deathwish it is." He climbs to his feet, brushing the front of his suit. "It's fine. This is good, actually. I mean, there's nothing I can do about a deathwish. I might even get my job back, hooray. So thank you for this _illuminating_ conversation, I'll just take my leave—"

"I wanted to see you!" Travis blurts.

Wes freezes. "Excuse me?"

"I-I wanted…" Travis swallows and wishes he was in optimal health so he could run away, because seriously, Wes is looking awfully scary and murderous right now. "I wanted…to see you. That's why I keep getting in these situations. It just sort of…got out of hand."

Wes's eye twitches again. "Are you seriously telling me," he says softly, in an _I can't believe you're this stupid I should kill you and remove you from the gene pool _tone of voice, "that you are _trying_ to get yourself nearly killed…because you have a _crush?_"

"No! I'm not saying that at all!" Travis shifts under Wes's flat stare. "But…I suppose, _technically, _someone could _possibly _put it like that."

The blonde huffs and angry sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. "If you wanted to see me, _idiot_, all you had to do was _ask_, not try and get yourself killed."

"Ask? How?" This doesn't feel like a conversation Travis should be having sitting down—he struggles to his feet. He waves his hands. "You're _dead!_"

"Do I look dead?" Wes stomps over, grabs a flailing hand. "Do I _feel_ dead?"

Well, no, he doesn't, his hand is warm and soft and he feels quite alive. But Travis _knows _he's not, and he pulls his hand free.

"I saw your obituary, Wes! You died _years_ ago!"

"I did!" The other male is trembling a little, and Travis really isn't sure if it's because he's angry and about to punch Travis or just upset and trying to reign himself in. Maybe a little of both, though Travis is kind of hoping it's the latter because he's injured and he really doesn't want to get punched by a dead guy.

"I died," Wes says, voice shaking to match his body, "but I was lucky, because _someone _up there decided to look past my stupid mistake and give me a second chance. A second chance that includes basic cable, a crappy hotel, and a fully living, functioning body."

He lifts his head, glares right at Travis. "I'm not some corpse walking around, okay, I have a heartbeat and I breathe just like you. It's a second chance a most people don't get that, most people aren't that lucky. So you telling me you're dying to see me _really pisses me off_, because if you'd told me that from the _start_ we could have avoided _this whole thing!"_

He's kind of roaring by the end, and Travis shuffles his feet and can't quite meet his eye. "Um…sorry?" he offers, because okay, this is kind of his fault, for the most part. But he didn't know about the whole alive-again thing, it's not like Wes volunteered that information. What was he supposed to think when an agent of death showed up?

"Sorry?" Wes chuckles, sharp and bitter. "Sorry's not gonna quite cut it this time, Travis. I really hate people who make light of their lives."

"I—"

"No." Wes holds up a hand, glaring at Travis, and those ice blue eyes cut like lasers. "Don't talk to me right now. I'm really pissed at you right now." He stalks away. "Don't go anywhere." With one final glower at Travis, he disappears into thin air.

Travis stares at the spot Wes vanished from, sucking his teeth. "Okay. I'll just…wait here, then."

Yeah. That went well.

**XXXX**

Travis has enough time to make dinner, take a shower, and redo his bandages before Wes comes back. He's sitting on the couch in sweatpants when Wes pops into view, right in front of him, making him jump and pull his stitches and _Jesus_, that hurts.

"Seriously, man, you need to get a bell or something if you're going to keep doing this."

"Here's the deal," Wes says, ignoring him completely. "I'm back on duty. Since it turns out your record was _entirely _your fault and had nothing to do with me, my bosses unsuspended me. But I'm on probation, because you're an idiot. So thank you for that."

"No problem," Travis mutters sourly, scratching his bandages.

"Stop that, you'll tear your stitches, dumbass." Wes puts his hands behind his back and starts moving, pacing slowly in front of the couch. Travis leans back and watches. "The thing is, this crush problem is, _frankly_, ridiculous, and it's going to cause so many stupid problems if you keep nearly dying in order to get my attention, so here's what we're going to do. You don't die, and I'll go out with you."

Travis's hand stops halfway to his chest. "What?"

"Yes." Wes nods, looking quite pleased with himself. "That's a good solution. We'll do that."

"I'm sorry, _what?_" Travis just gapes at the other man. "You'll just go out with me, just like that?"

"_No,_ not 'just like that'." Wes rolls his eyes in a _Weren't you listening to anything I just said?_ way. "I'll go out with you after you refrain from dying. I'd say, what, thirty days? That's a good starting point."

"No, that's not…just wait a second, alright?" Travis holds out his hands, brow furrowed as he gets this straight. "You're just willing to go on a date with me. Do you even like me? Because if this is a pity thing, dude, I'm not _that_ desperate."

Wes sighs, as much annoyance as exasperation in the sound. "I am…mildly fond of you. To an extent. I'd be a lot more find of you if you stopped throwing yourself towards death every chance you got. Probably." He huffs, looking away, and slowly admits, "There is…_some_ attraction here. _Some_. But it doesn't mean anything if you're dead."

A slow smile creeps across Travis's face. "You like me."

He's gratified to see a flush cross Wes's cheeks. "No, I didn't say that."

"You feel some fondness for me. You _like _me." He leans back smugly on the couch. "I guess I'm not the only one with a crush here, huh?"

Wes drops into the armchair, face in his hand. "I hate you so much."

"No you _don't,"_ Travis sing-songs. "You _like me…_"

The look Wes shoots him is weary, and frustrated, and _maybe_, just maybe, a little bit amused. "You just never stop, do you?"

"Nope." Travis settles back in the couch, scratching absently. After a moment, he says, "Hey Wes. You'd really go out with me?"

"Like I said." Wes crosses his legs, all long lines and sharp angles. "There's an attraction here. I'm willing to act on it if you are. But you can't die. And you can't almost die."

Travis wants it. He's wanted it ever since he realized what he was feeling. He just didn't know that he could have it.

Things are all different now that there's a chance.

"Okay. Hit me. What's the deal?"

The blonde puts his hands together, eyeing him over his steepled fingers. "You go thirty days without my intervening to save your life, and I'll go out with you. An actual date. I show up to save you, the clock starts over."

"Fair enough." Thirty days shouldn't be so hard.

(Of course, last time he said that he got shot in the chest, so…)

"Starting from when I get back on duty?"

Wes purses his lips thoughtfully, studying him. Then he sighs. "I should say yes, but you can have a near-death experience slicing onions, so we can start tomorrow if you'd like."

"Hey! I have never!"

"Would you like me to pull out the list?" Wes reaches into his jacket like he's going to do just that. "Because I have a list."

"No, I know you have a list. That's okay." Travis waves him down. "Yeah, fine, thirty days works." He's quiet a beat. "And after that?"

"After that…we'll see." Wes rises to his feet, buttoning his jacket. He nods slightly to Travis, a smile tugging at his lips. "I don't want to see you for thirty days, Travis Marks."

Travis waves one hand in farewell. "See you then, Wes."

And Wes is gone, vanished like a breath of air, and Travis drops his head back and sighs.

**XXXX**

He's on desk duty for weeks. Twice a week he has to go talk to the station shrink about what's going on in his life and his outlook on his job, et cetera, et cetera. Luckily, Travis has always been good about bullshitting his way past shrinks—eighteen years of practice sure paid off—so at the final session he gets his papers signed and everything is hunky dory.

He stops being mad at Paekman after week one, but it isn't until he's back on the field that he can forgive his friend aloud. He _does _understand why Paekman did what he did, going to Sutton like that, but it isn't until he's past it that he can explain it was more the _situation_ he was pissed at than Paekman himself.

Paekman is an awesome friend who says it's all good. Just for that, Travis buys him lunch.

It's still not easy. No matter how hard he tries, Travis has a tendency to run headlong into danger. But he's working on it. A lot is riding on staying out of the line of fire, best he can; his job, his friendship, his love life. And, still, the fate of the world, some way or another. With all that in mind, it's a little easier to wait for backup, to hang back until Paekman catches up. Not completely easy, not at all—he wants to _go_—but a _little _easier.

Sometimes, as he's going into situations, he imagines he hears an irritated voice, berating him for making a stupid choice yet again, or he thinks he'll see a flash of blonde in the corner of his eye. There's never anyone there when he looks, but he knows Wes _is_ there, invisibly watching his back.

That makes it a little easier too.

It's not perfect, but Travis is getting there.

**XXXX**

He comes home from work, tired and sore from running around all day. Residual pain from his gunshot wounds ache and he just wants to take a nice, long hot shower and relax.

Then he sees the envelope sitting on the armchair. There's no name, and he approaches with caution.

Inside is a graduation card, with big balloon letters saying 'You did it!' Travis gets an inkling of who it's from, but it isn't until he opens it that his suspicion is confirmed.

Inside it just has a place, a date, and a time. It's not signed, but only Wes would leave this kind of note.

Travis can't help but grin.

**XXXX**

The day of the date, Travis dresses in his nicest jeans and an actual button-down shirt. He takes a breath, looks in the mirror, and gives himself a thumbs up. "You can do it. It'll be fine."

He spends the ride to the restaurant in nervous anticipation, and god, he hasn't felt like this about a date since he was in high school. Which just goes to show how much he wants this to go well.

The hostess has a bright smile for him and leads him right to the table, a cozy little corner set up. Wes is already there, in a dark suit and a blue shirt that brings out his eyes. Travis's throat goes a little dry.

The blonde glances up, candlelight making his skin glow, and says, "There, now see? That wasn't so hard, was it?"

Travis drops into his seat and does his best to sound normal. "It's definitely much nicer to see you like this, rather than how we used to meet up."

Wes chuckles, a low, warm sound that goes right through Travis like a bullet, and _damn_ the man looks fine when he smiles. "Then how about we keep it that way, hmm?" he asks, opening his menu and perusing.

All Travis can do is nod and say, "Sounds like a plan."

Later, they'll seal it with a kiss, but that comes after the wining and dining and over an hour of talking.

For now, there's candlelight, and wine, and good food, and Travis has never felt more alive.

**OOOO**

**I honestly have no idea where this came from. I hope you enjoyed the crack.**

**Leave me a comment telling me what you thought! Reviews and constructive criticism are always welcome.**

**Until next time~!**


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